And the bright waters-they, too, hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou has burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day.
And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And penciling the wood-anemone:
Silent they seem; yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring- The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art: What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, O, there too much!- we know not well Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see. How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feetSpring, 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these?
CANNOT paint
What then I was.
VARYING IMPRESSIONS FROM NATURE.
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite, a feeling and a love, That had no heed of a remoter charm By thoughts supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.-That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed: for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear-both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
BAST thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!
Into the mighty vision passing As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears Mute thanks and secret ecstacy. Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymu.
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Forever shattered and the same forever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came), ' Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain, Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge,- Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet — God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! Sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, - Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, a while bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me.-Rise, oh, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell you rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
ITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Daisy! again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes,
Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising:
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humor of the game, While I am gazing.
A nun demure, of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of love's court, In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations.
A little cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next,-and instantly The freak is over,
The shape will vanish,-and behold A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover!
I see thee glittering from afar,— And then thou art a pretty star; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;- May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee!
Bright Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet, silent creature!
That breath'st with me in sun and air Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
WHAT shall we say of flowers-those flaming banners of the vegetable world, which march in such various and splendid triumph before the coming of its fruits?
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